Ferox Coruscus
by Advocata Diaboli
Summary: Methos takes a bad quickening and looses his memory for a short period of time. This is not a "rehab" fic; it deals with the bad quickening itself and its immediate aftermath.


Ferox Coruscus

By AdvocataDiaboli

Disclaimer: The show is not mine, of course. Highlander and its characters belong to Panzer-Davis Productions. The fic is mine, though. Duh.

Musings (feel free to skip this): This is the first thing I've written in a while, and the first thing I've uploaded under this name. It started when I was feeling especially restless one day, and I worked around that later to give it some more sanity. Now that I think about it, it's very similar in character to the first fic I ever wrote though I'd like to think my characterization and my writing skills have improved since the age of 12 or so.

A warning to you grammar nuts out there: yes, the first part jumps between first and third person or at least, it seems to. This is intentional. Read it as an identity crisis.

This does not take place at any certain time during the show, although obviously it's set after the entire Horsemen debacle.

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"Mac- MacLeod, please, please, not now. Don't get on my case now," Methos jammed the heel of his hand against his temple as if to combat some inner pressure imbalance. "Not now, not now..." His back arched, mouth open, he seemed to writhe. This quickening, like most others he'd taken for as long as he could remember, would take some time to absorb.

"And why not, Methos? What the hell do you think you're doing?" Mac's sneer was enhanced by the streak of red across his face, where he'd unknowingly smeared his own blood. Methos had shot him again. "This was my fight. Mine. And now you-"

"Mac, please, I don't do quickenings well. Please, I'm - not right - now." A scream, swallowed. Methos made quick, gulping noises, trying to calm himself. He'd be fine, just fine, in a matter of seconds. Only a moment, and he'd be able to gather himself together and see to MacLeod. If only the highlander would be quiet!

But no, the youngster was impatient. Adam was making high, breathy panting noises now. The electricity, the soul, wouldn't absorb if he couldn't calm himself. Only a few seconds, that's all I need, Methos screamed to himself.

Duncan grabbed the collar of Adam Pierson's oversized wool coat, bringing him face to face with the younger man's anger. "I'm not right, not right now, I'm not r-"

"MY FIGHT, Methos! And you have no right to interfere - you know that. Why do you always do this?" He dropped his friend back to the wet pavement.

Getting shot in the heart by a well-meaning friend - again - doesn't make for a happy time, immortal or no. Methos wasn't on his good list as it was, not even after they'd 'cleared the air' on the barge. No, Duncan would never forgive him for Kronos. Duncan could never forgive Death.

So Death gave him a disgruntled look, sitting on his ass on the wet - and probably bloody - pavement before Duncan's feet, while Methos tried to calm himself. Calm, calm, calm.

I'll never be calm. Not like this. Not with him. Them. Another jolt of electricity runs up my arm, I clench my teeth. It should be over by now, damn it.

"Duncan, please, I'm not ri-" another strange gulping noise, followed by those breathy gasps.

"I'm falling apart here, you need to give me some space," Adam, I'm Adam, I tell myself. Adam Pierson owns a bookshop in Seacouver, USA, and he speaks English quietly and with a slight Welsh accent. "I've got a bit of an identity issue here, Mac. Give me space." Not Death. Adam doesn't kill people. Adam likes books.

Adam doesn't snarl at the boy the way Death just did.

Adam's odd noises stopped, but the boy was still backing off, his brow wrinkled in confusion.

"God, that was bad. He was older than I thought." Weary, Methos got up. Wiped his sword calmly on the dead man next to him. Sheathed it.

Not Adam, no, because Duncan knows his other name - the older one.

"Methos?" A whole question wrapped up in that one name. A whole bunch of questions. Methos shrugged, smiled enigmatically.

"MacLeod, I don't take quickenings well. And as you well know, I hadn't taken many at all until you came along. I went 200 years without killing before I met you, you know."

"Is that why?" Sometimes the highlander, despite his many shortcomings, can make connections that I'd rather him not make. Death would've killed him for figuring such things out. Methos would make a sarcastic comment about his youth and inexperience. Still shaky, all that came out was an amused snort. Neither would have allowed him enough information to make any sort of connection with.

"Methos, I've never seen anyone react that way to a quickening." Brown eyes stare at me in concern. Oxen-eyed, I would have called him when I was known as Remus, and it would have been a compliment. He's obviously gotten over his anger.

My hair stands on end because the damn electricity, which should have absorbed by now. Maybe I've reached my capacity, I think again, but I think that every time this happens.

Methos has just been living an especially stressful life recently. And that couldn't have anything to do with the six-foot-plus Adonis looking at Adam's shaking, thin body, could it?

When I was Aphrikles, I knew Adonis. Not well, but I knew him. Now, he's dust and lives on only as a story. A metaphor.

Methos pushed at his temple again, against that invisible pressure in his skull. He hated it when this happens. It would be happening for hours, probably days. Another week in the basement, meditating, because Adam can't afford to go to Tibet this year.

The highlander dragged him out of the conveniently abandoned warehouse, away from the blood. Aphrikles hated blood.

"Methos-" The highlander glanced around, noting the few stragglers walking the roads of Seacouver, not close enough to hear our conversation, but still worrisome. He hushes his voice. "Adam. You don't look very good. You're coming home with me."

"Adam?" The voice coming out of my mouth was coarse, grating, without an accent.

Adam closed his eyes. His stomach clenched, as if he'd spent too much time in hot, hot water and cannot breathe for the steam. True blackness came as he felt the dark-haired Adonis shove him into the back of a car.

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Soft, clean. Cold. Thoughts vague, drifting, restless. A bed. Who am I, again? Several names come to mind. Not good. Really, very, not good.

I open my eyes and the oxen-eyed man is staring down at me. I can't recall who I'm supposed to be. Bed slave, master, lover, enemy, friend? There are too many possibilities, and I can't seem to put the centuries in correct order to figure out what's most likely.

I hate this blank-slate feeling.

"Ferox coruscus ." Not a question. This always happens after a bad light-head-quickening. I can feel the unsettled sparks, the remnants of an unfamiliar life displacing my own sense of self. Usually, however, I'm able to remember who I am. Usually, it takes only a moment to keep my mind focused on the more recent past. What happened?

Right now, the oxen-eyed man is the only point of reference I have, and I've known so many pretty brown-eyed men.

"Multiple personality disorder." He says, like it's some revelation - like human medical terms have any relevance to something like this. It's probably his goddamned fault I'm like this anyway. At least now I know what language I should be using.

I smile at him. He's cute, really. And this is definitely his fault - he looks far too guilty. "If you'd like."

"Methos, I had no idea. This... this changes everything." Methos. That name narrows it down to what? 4000 years?

"I'm sorry. Who are you? I seem to have taken a bad quickening." I stretch vainly, luxuriating in the clean sheets and my own nudity. Wonder how that happened? "Do you have any beer?"

The man blinks at me dumbly until he starts laughing. He laughs until he chokes on his tears. He wipes his eyes and looks down at me again, pressing his lips together. My smile fades as he looked at me, and I feel myself drawing in defensively.

"What?"

He shook his head. He looks sad, now.

"What have I done?" Alarm, now, a hint of fear. A memory of Kronos hits me and I sit up, drawing my legs and the sheets in front of me. I don't want to remember Kronos.

I know the dangers I might face if I ignore my past. I know it will create more problems than it will solve, but I don't want to remember Kronos.

My oxen-eyed friend smiles, though, in a tender way. My fear melts away. Maybe I can afford to forget for a while.

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(MacLeod)

Five thousand years. Five thousand years, and I expected him to be sane. I should have left him alone when he asked. If I'd spared him only a few seconds, this would never have happened. But no, I had to get my anger out, had to scream at him for trying to help me. Again. He'd only asked for a few seconds.

God, he looks so young.

I've never seen Methos smile that way. Then again, I've never seen him the way he was after that quickening either.

He looks terrified now, curled up on my bed like a waif, (although his body certainly cannot be described as waif-like at all) and I can't help remembering the last time he was on my bed - spread out defiantly, body language wide open, shoes rebelliously on the clean sheets. I haven't felt this protective of anyone in a long while, since even before Richie.

He speaks again after a moment, hesitant. "You don't have any beer? How about wine?" Of course, he still is Methos in some fashion. I resist the urge to ruffle his hair as I get up to get his beer.

He crows in triumph when I return, cold beer in hand. I belatedly realized that I'd flicked the cap up on top of the refrigerator, and can't help but chuckle. He crawls across the bed in only a pair of plain white boxers, loose hipped and feline, to take the bottle from me. His smile is infectious.

He asks my name again, and suddenly my guilt is back full-force. I did this to him, I think, as I sat down heavily on the bed. What's going on, here, really? I've got to call Joe.

Instead, I look sadly at Methos's face. His eyes, wider and brighter than I've ever seen them. Mouth set in the biggest smile, nose scrunched up adorably. He's open, wide open, without any of his usual pretenses. What's happened to him? What have I done?

"Do you know your name?"

He blinks. "Methos." Hesitantly, knowing I want more but unsure if he's got it right, he speaks again. "Aphrikles. Akakios. Drusus. Peter. Elpis. Appius Claudius Crescentius. Enusat." His breath has sped up, eyes darting like he was reading from a text. "George Williamson, Balathu, Adam, Marcipor, Adjo, Shai, servus Egnatii Publ- oh!"

He jerks back when I grab his arms. I want him to stop - he looks like he's on the verge of hyperventilating. Wide green eyes stare into me as one last name spills from his lips. "Death."

One long hand touches my face softly. The other goes to his face, pressing again against his temple. Electricity dances on the opposite side of his face and across one bared shoulder. His eyes roll. The blue sparks are the only thing to move until his tongue darts out, licking his lips. His eyes are thinner; he no longer smiles.

He is still looking at me, directly at me, when he says, "But you should name me. I don't want to remember. It's insanely dangerous, and I know I've gotten myself into trouble this way before, but..."

He laughs, astonished, and takes his hand from his temple. The sparks are gone, but I can tell it's not for long.

"I don't want to remember it - any of it. Because I know you'll hate me for it. God help me, I don't even know your name, but I know you'll hate me. And I'll hate me. I'm very tired of being unhappy."

"I... can't." The words claw their way out of me.

"Why not? There's nothing to loose. Be my friend. Show me the world again, though young eyes."

"No. I can't. What have I done? Methos, what have I done to you?"

"Don't call me that. I want to forget these past hundred centuries. I want to forget death. I want to forget slavery. I want to forget Kronos. I want to forget... I want..." He breaks off, almost sobbing. By his expression, Methos has started to remember whatever it is he had been blocking.

Wait. Did he just say the past HUNDRED centuries?

"Please, help me? I want to- I don't- I'm not- I'm not right, Duncan, get away from me, please, Duncan," Sparks snap against my skin everywhere our skin is touching. Methos throws himself backwards, hitting the wall next to the bed. That awful gasping has started again, like he's been stabbed in the guts and he's trying to swallow his tears. He sounds like a wounded animal.

I jump back, away from him, finally giving him the space he'd asked for. He still looks so young, even as he sobs and gasps and gulps and mutters in some unknown language.

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(Methos)

No, no, no no no no. I don't want to remember. Methos is a cruel, sick, hurt, terribly painful thing. Adam hurts more. Death doesn't hurt at all. Not until long after. Thousands of other names call at me, but they are as dead as the dust of their homes, their families, their worlds.

Methos arches his back as the last vestiges of the quickening - aftershocks, really - snap into him.

All those dead, beautiful people. All those beautiful, crumbled walls. So much TIME.

God damn, highlander. Couldn't you pick any younger, less powerful enemies for me to kill against your wishes?

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It hurts more the longer it takes. The more time spent forgetting, the harder it is to drag myself though all those centuries - like climbing back up though a cesspool of unending filth, where only the bottom is fresh-water clean and only the top - the present - has air to breathe.

A bad metaphor, but it's all I can come up with at this point.

Shit, I need a drink. MacLeod's not helping, sitting on his arse staring at me. I shove my hand towards him, wiggling my fingers.

"Beer." He hands it to me and I drink it wearily. I probably spilled some on his sheets. Fuck it. I chuck the now-empty bottle to the floor and sit up.

Mac's still looking at me funny. He's supposed to be angry with me, because I took his challenge, because I'm not Adam, because I am and I've been Not Good. Instead he's looking at me like I just told him his puppy has cancer and is going to die a horrible wasting death with tubes up its nose in bland white soulless room.

I suddenly think I might not be quite over Alexa yet.

The bed dips and creeks as Duncan moves to sit uncharacteristically close to me. A hand reaches up to ghost over my shorn hair, down one thin cheekbone, across the prominent bridge of my nose. A thumb brushes my narrow bottom lip before his palm cradles my jawbone.

Moments pass and he simply stares at me, looking into my eyes, thinking whatever thoughts might be in that pretty, noble head of his. He looks like he's about to say something unnecessarily dramatic when electricity suddenly sparks to life on my skin, licking against his hand and down the left side of my body.

I'm not sure if the blue light is the remnants of the dead man's quickening or my own overflowing, calling to the highlander. It could even be Duncan's, drawn to the open wound of my immortal power. I jerk away; I'd prefer not to find out.

"Well, highlander, I must say it's been an eventful evening, but I really must be going. I wouldn't want to," haul myself out of his clean, soft, warm, wonderful bed and steady myself on cold feet "make myself a nuisance."

The highlander reaches for Adam's hand and says Methos's name, trying to stop me. Trying to keep me in his presence. "Methos, you're not healthy enough to leave. I... we need to fix this thing-"

"This thing, be it a personality disorder, schizophrenia, some sort of defect in my brain, or just plain too-much-quickening, has been putting me in danger - and keeping me sane - for thousands of years. It's not something you can solve, highlander. Just drop it."

The air is cool against my skin - my very bare skin, I note absently. The burden of Adam's shyness and twentieth-century sensibilities settles down on my body and in my mind. I take my clothes from where they sit, neatly folded, on the foot of the bed. In the silence, I step into my jeans - warm and clean.

He must have washed them. That's not so surprising once I think about it; they were covered in blood, after all.

I'm tired, but it's an empty tired, almost clean. Almost. I guess the extra time spent in that state of limbo has afforded me some peace of mind. I remember the nauseating confusion that had taken over me after the quickening and shudder. At least I needn't look forward to pulling myself back together from the after affects of the quickening. My little "reboot" saw to that.

I walk out the door without looking back. I don't want to think about MacLeod, or about what he saw. I'm alright now.

End

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Bad quickening. Literally, " wild/high-spirited shaking/flashing." I originally went with "nocens lux" or "hurtful/wicked light" but I like "ferox corusucs" better, both in meaning and in the way it sounds.


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